Happy Noises
by Wynjara
Summary: “Should it be making that sound?” “Yes Ron, those are its happy noises” Not intended to be even remotely serious!
1. Happy noises

          Ronald Weasley looked dubiously into his cauldron.  His Fiesta potion had turned an interesting shade of- something.  And it was popping.  "Should it be making that sound?" he wondered.  Hermione Granger looked at him sharply.

          "What sound?" she asked him, sounding irritated.  She leaned over to his table and heard the odd noises.  "Yes Ron, those are its happy noises," she told him sarcastically, then yelled, "NO IT SHOULDN'T BE MAKING THAT SOUND!!!"

          Professor Snape glided over to the two.  "Miss Granger, before I take the points I surely should, would you care to enlighten us as to the cause of your outburst?"  His voice was dryly sarcastic.  Hermione just pointed to the flashing concoction in Ron's cauldron, then had the unenviable experience of seeing the professor's pale face go pure white.  "Move!" he snapped, pushing her away.  Before he or Ron could react further, the strange sounds emanating from the potion crested, and the goo exploded, showering over the two men.

          When the room had gone silent again, Hermione peeked over the tall table.  The two men were slowly getting to their feet.  Both had pained, almost frantic expressions on their faces.  She wondered why, as neither had sprouted any new appendages nor were they spitting fire or turning colors.  There seemed to be nothing wrong with them, from her point of view.

          Snape managed to snap out, "Twenty points from Gryffindor, for sheer incompetence!  Clean up, all of you, and get out!" before he turned with a swirl of robes and went to rustle through his desk.  As Hermione and Harry helped their friend out the door, they saw Snape pull a thick book from his bottom drawer.

          "So what happened?" Harry asked.  Ron's freckles looked like they were about to fall off his face, if his eyes didn't pop out first.

          "Where's that awful music coming from?" Ron muttered frantically, looking around as if there was a demented DJ hiding around the next corner.

          Harry and Hermione exchanged confused glances.  They didn't hear anything.  "What music, Ron?" Harry asked.

          "That- that- can men _sing_ that high?  Aaagh!  What's with the lights!?!"

          The H pair shared another look, before grabbing one arm each and hauling Ron to the hospital wing.  Once he was under Madame Pomfrey's confused but capable care [ooh, alliteration] they sat in the waiting room to discuss possibilities.

          "Ok, Herm, you always know all this stuff.  What's the Fiesta potion supposed to do?  I mean, I know it has something to do with parties, but how does it work?"

          Hermione thought for a minute.  "Well, depending on the exact combination of ingredients added in the last stage, it's basically intended to set the mood.  If you don't want to hire a band, for example, you'd make a _Sonus_ variation and sprinkle a few drops in each corner of every room you wanted affected, and it would play music by theme.  Or you could make an _Amore_ variation and it would conjure images of candlelight and soft violins or something.  Some people have experimented with drinking the potion, to have the effects only for themselves, like, if you wanted a romantic setting but were in the middle of a subway or something."

          "So maybe Ron's experiencing symptoms like if he had drunk it," Harry hesitated.  "He was talking about music and lights.  But it didn't really sound like a fun experience, I mean, he was practically screaming in pain!"

          Before Hermione could formulate an answer the door to the hospital wing swung open, and Ron stepped out.  In answer to his friends' questions he just muttered something about needing to find an antidote to the potion and asking Snape.


	2. Too cruel

A/N This will likely be short. It originally was about one paragraph long, inspired by a line my roommate told me. Now, well, I apologize for the short chapters.

Thanks for the reviews, and by the way, prettyproffessor, even I'm not that cruel. I don't think.

*********

The Gryffindor trio decided to put off asking their professor for anything until they absolutely had to. His expression at lunch had sent several first years running screaming from the hall, while two fifth year Hufflepuffs fainted. The three had managed not to do anything quite so drastic, but had certainly had their appetites vastly shrunk. They grabbed some of the more portable food items and made a break for the library.

"Here are all the books I could find with any reference to the Fiesta potion," Hermione announced, levitating a small city's worth of paper onto their table. Harry looked at it in dismay, then looked at his red-headed friend, who was currently twitching in rather unpleasant looking ways. He had stopped commenting on the lights, but occasional attempts to cover his ears indicated that he was still hearing the horrific sounds. Harry summoned his resolve (Here boy! Here, Resolve! Come on!) and opened the first book.

Three hours later the two were surrounded by books they had looked through and declared useless. Well, unless you were trying to turn your neighbor's pet chicken purple or change high school cafeteria food into something edible. (Hermione didn't believe that one; not even magic could make Muggle schools' attempts into actual food.) Their search had been interrupted a few times by pained groans from Ron, and mumbled comments along the lines of, 'no, I _don't _actually want to stay alive after all this' and 'please, someone, just kill me'.

Considering that not even Trelawney's dreadful predictions had ever inspired any of the three to actually wish for their utter demise, Harry and Hermione were justifiably worried.

"Ok, we've narrowed it down to these few," Hermione said finally. Seven books lay open to various pages on their increasingly cluttered table. The table practically groaned under the weight, until Harry threatened to chop it up for new equipment for the Gryffindor beaters. After that the only sounds were Ron's whimpers.

"So what have we got?" Harry asked anxiously, trying to ignore the strange twitches running through his friend's body. It was almost like he was trying to dance, but not even Ron danced _that_ badly.

"Well, there's this one," Hermione said. "It says something about…ugh, that's gruesome!"

Harry looked over her shoulder and twitched. "Justin Timberlake? Can't be, Ron would've jumped off the roof by now. Nobody could have survived that this long."

Hermione nodded. "I guess that also knocks out Britney Spears and the Backstreet Boys."

Harry agreed. "I would guess it cuts out all the boy bands. And probably the Spice Girls too. Oh, and most country."

"It could be opera, I suppose," Hermione said doubtfully. "He was complaining about the men singing too high, but he didn't really sound sure. It _could_ have been a woman's voice."

"Nah, his eardrums are still mostly intact. Those high sopranos are lethal weapons, I swear."

Hermione sighed. "Ok then, what's left?" The two bent back over their books.

Ten minutes later they lifted their heads, almost simultaneously. They looked at each other in horror, and wordlessly showed the other what they had found. All the symptoms matched. There was nothing else possible, it had to be this. They looked at their friend in awe of his fortitude, picked him up from his convulsions on the floor, and dragged him towards the Headmaster's office.

*****

Severus Snape was not a happy man.

True, he wasn't a happy individual in general these days. He still wanted to know whose influence he was under when he agreed to teach these incompetent prepubescent fools. If he ever found that person, he would bottle them up and feed them to the giant squid. Then again, maybe not. He had nothing against the squid; after all, there was always the possibility that it would eat one of the brats and leave him less to put up with.

But his usual everyday 'I'm not allowed to kill the students no matter how many times they melt my cauldrons, nearly blow me up, or turn each other into un-nameable objects, what a pity' dissatisfaction was nothing compared to the anguish he was suffering now, at the hands of one of those students.

One student, and that damned _music_.

Snape prided himself on his steadiness, his ability to resist the worse tortures even Voldemort could devise. But this, this _horror_, was pressing him close to his limits. Not even the Dark Lord was this cruel.

Since the – incident – he had been searching frantically through every journal and book in his collection, searching for an explanation, and more importantly a cure. He managed to ignore the flashing lights his eyes swore were creating boxes on the walls. Well, mostly.

He flipped the page, nearly growling as the music in his head began to repeat itself for the fifth time, then stared at the next page in disbelief. He had found it! Skimming through the page, his momentary elation sunk until it hit the floor with a loud *clang*. He ignored the onomatopoeia and stared in horror. It was too diabolical, too inhuman; _no one_ could survive that. The cure was nearly worse than the disease.

He dropped his head to the desk with a loud thud and Severus Snape, greasy git potions master, ex-Death Eater turned spy, cried like a baby.

_Bonus points to whoever figures out what they're hearing. And sorry if I offended anyone's beloved music. Well, no, not really._


	3. Channeling my mother?

_A/N. Glad people are enjoying this. I'm still not actually telling what the music is, but you can probably figure it out. I'll give a hint: one of my lovely reviewers got it. There's probably only one more chapter to go._

^^^^^^^^

Albus Dumbledore, recipient of the Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorcerer, Chief Warlock, Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards, most powerful wizard currently living, was fighting a losing battle – with a closet.

"Where did all this _stuff_ come from?" he wondered.

"Well, if you'd clean up once in a while, maybe actually get rid of some of that old stuff, hmm, and while you're at it you could get a haircut…"

"When did you start channeling my mother?" Albus inquired pleasantly, stepping over a pile of shoes. The portrait seemed irked at his lack of reaction, and went back to sleep, muttering about spoilsports and never having any fun. Dumbledore smiled for a moment more, until a large collection of hatboxes fell on his head. 

Rubbing the sore spot, he sighed and conjured a large box to hold his discards. He began wandering through his clothes, magical and Muggle both. 'Good Merlin, did I really own neon yellow and pumpkin plaid robes?' he thought in mild horror. 'Although I suppose it's better than the polkadot suit with the pastel tie. Why in the world did I ever think that was a good idea?' Wondering if perhaps he'd been affected by a Bad Taste charm at some point in his life, he began pulling some of the more frightening items from their hangers, tossing them into the box. Maybe later he'd transform them into something less painful. Like, say, broken glass.

For a very brief moment he considered letting Dobby dig through the discards, but quickly regained his senses. He had the retinas of the entire school to protect, after all.

Albus was distinctly relieved that he'd set aside the entire afternoon for this effort. Occasionally over the course of the day he found himself hoping that Voldemort never got hold of any of these items. Never mind the Unforgivables, true horror involved lime green snakeskin bellbottoms with blue zigzags.

Five hours later the closet was no longer quite the assault on the senses that it had been. Figuring that he may as well organize the remainder, he spent another half hour separating his robes from the Muggle clothing he'd collected, and arranged them almost as an afterthought by time period.

Finished, Albus smiled happily, popped a lemon drop into his mouth, and began browsing through the items he'd decided to keep, remembering the situations surrounding each of them. He paused and grinned at a specific pair of Muggle jeans, remembering a rather interesting experience in America during the sixties.

Acting on a strange impulse, he picked up the jeans and their accompanying top and pulled them on. He nearly giggled, realizing he was essentially playing dress-up like a small child, but decided he was certainly allowed to do as he pleased in his spare time. Several of the portraits were also snickering, but he certainly had enough blackmail material to keep them quiet.

It was quite a surprise, therefore, when Severus Snape stepped through the fireplace and stopped dead.

%%%%

Snape had pulled himself together pretty quickly, thanking any spirit listening that no one had seen his breakdown. He finally rose and gathered his notes, shook out his robes, and Flooed to the Headmaster's office. He'd done it often enough without notice that he felt secure doing it again. He was, therefore, quite shocked to step from the fireplace and find the headmaster braiding flowers into his hair.

Severus blinked in surprise. He knew that Dumbledore was ridiculously lighthearted compared to himself, but even that hadn't prepared him for 'Hippie Headmaster'. Albus was dressed in Muggle jeans that had been painted and sewn with colorful flowers, and a gauzy purple top heavy with embroidery. 

Albus looked up and smiled. "Ah, Severus, what can I do for you?" he asked, as though everything was perfectly normal. Of course, around Albus Dumbledore, 'perfectly normal' was a very vague term.

Snape caught himself gaping and mentally chastised himself. Then groaned in frustration as his lack of distraction brought the potion-inflicted affliction back in full strength. Trying to keep himself from shouting in a futile attempt to drown out the chaos in his head, he said, "I seem to have a rather persistent problem." Trying to keep his face neutral, he explained about the failed potion, his symptoms, and his research, then delivered the punchline. 

Albus blinked. He actually liked some of that music, truth be told, but figured Severus didn't need to know that right now. Besides, from the description he was giving, this wasn't any of the better pieces available. Having always been rather entranced by Muggle music trends, he was pretty sure that Snape- and probably Mr. Weasley as well- were suffering through some of the more vicious moments of the period in question. He glanced at the notes Severus had handed him, taking in the doodled death threats surrounding the proposed cure, and almost smiled. He held it in, knowing that it would not be appreciated.

A knock on the door prevented anything that might have been said at that moment. Snape seemed busy trying to ignore whatever he was hearing, so Albus called his new guests in. He wasn't particularly surprised to see the Gryffindor trio enter, supporting their red-headed friend between the other two. They didn't seem to notice their headmaster's odd appearance, nor Snape's presence, until they had deposited Ron into a nearby chair. Then they noticed, and Snape roused himself from his misery to smirk at their openmouthed surprise, freely ignoring the fact that he'd done just the same not too long ago. Albus seemed mildly amused as well, his eyes twinkling brighter than ever. Severus wondered if his mother had been a string of Christmas tree lights.

Having gotten over their shock, or at least hid until later, the two coherent Gryffindors managed to close their gaping jaws. Harry looked nervously at their glaring professor and motioned for Hermione to explain. A silent battle ensued, culminating in the tried and true method for finding the person best suited for a task: rock paper scissor. 

Hermione sighed. "Well, there was a minor catastrophe in potions today…"

The Headmaster interrupted her. "I suppose that Mr. Weasley is experiencing strange lights and rather unpleasant music, am I correct?" She nodded.

Harry cringed away from Snape's glare, glad that Ron was too far out of it to notice, but raised some of his Gryffindor courage and asked, "Sir? Why aren't you affected as badly as Ron?"

Snape raised an eyebrow in contempt, ignoring the sudden volume increase from his invisible serenadors. "I should think that in your research you should have found that answer, but perhaps I had once again overestimated your abilities. Since I prefer not to sit here all night waiting for you to put together the clues you already have, I will simply explain. The Fiesta potion was developed, as I'm sure Miss Granger here could tell you, to provide the precise ambience its creator wishes. Therefore, it is highly dependent upon that person, and affects them far more efficiently than anyone else. After all, why let someone else enjoy all the effects you just put hard work into creating?" 'Why indeed,' said his expression. He didn't mention that he was better at hiding his reactions that the teenager, nor did he mention that he would likely be quivering on the floor if the onslaught he was experiencing had been any worse. Those tiny details were quite irrelevant, he thought.

Dumbledore's smile quirked as if he had heard Severus' inward 'details'. The coherent ones in the group looked at him, waiting for some sort of solution – preferably not the one they had found.

Ron twitched again as yet another chorus sang out. He couldn't begin to imagine just how tight the man's pants must have been to get that note out, and was pretty sure that it had to be painful. Hearing it certainly was. He had been considering blunt object trauma as a viable alternative for some time now, and began trying to gather his wits enough to ask Harry to brain him with a Beater bat. The Headmaster's voice distracted him.

"Based on the research you all did, and since you all came to the same conclusion, I'm afraid we'll have to go with it. It may be a trifle unpleasant," and he ignored Snape's implication that 'unpleasant' wasn't quite the word, "but we certainly can't allow this to go on. Mr. Weasley might shake the furniture apart if he keeps twitching like that. And you may be in luck! I was just cleaning out my closet, and I believe I may have what you need right here." He rose and went to the discard box, wincing at the garish pile of cloth. Grimacing slightly he dug through until he found the two items he'd been looking for. He brought them over to his desk, smiling apologetically. Snape took one look, went pale, and collapsed into a chair. Ron passed out. Harry and Hermione just wished they could. Or at least wished they could turn off their eyes.

Snape was the first to recover. "And it has to be an entire week?" he moaned, oblivious to the students beside him. They didn't notice anyway, being half Petrified from the horrific sight before their eyes. 

Albus nodded.

Snape's voice was hopeful when he asked, "But I can have my robes over it, right?" He dropped his head to the tabletop loudly when the Headmaster shook his head.

"Come now, Severus, it won't be that bad. Now, which would you like- purple or orange?"


	4. Horrible fates and happy? endings

A/N- So here it is, the last chapter. There's really no reason why this took so darn long to write, I've just not been inspired. Thanks to everyone who reviewed.

Hermione was nervous as she, Harry and Ron entered the potions lab. Professor Snape had not been at breakfast that morning, nor had anyone seen him that past weekend. Taking into consideration that Ron had hidden in his dorm all weekend, she and Harry had assumed that their professor was doing the same in his rooms. Unfortunately for Snape Dumbledore had forbidden him from canceling or skipping all of his classes. Snape had grudgingly agreed that no one else in the school could teach them what was needed for their exams, but he'd sneered the whole while. Hermione had a feeling that this wasn't good news for the students either.

The customary whispering of several dozen students waiting for their class to start died down as the door slammed open as usual- then silenced completely as the potions master entered. They were all rather fond of their continued survival, so no one commented as he strode to the front of the room, his usual swooping motions curtailed by the lack of flowing robes. He went straight to the board and scrawled the recipe for them, then turned and glared at the class.

"Well?" he barked. The students burst into silent motion. Snape smirked inwardly, enjoying the mental image of a classroom full of small insects bumbling about under a magnifying glass, knowing full well that his glare was approximately the same temperature,

Hermione copied down the instructions quickly and quietly, nearly holding her breath. She noticed the other students doing the same after Snape took five points from a Slytherin- a _Slytherin_!- for breathing too loudly. She had a bad feeling that this was going to be a very long class.

Severus Snape was, once again, _not_ a happy man. He sat behind his desk just glaring at the silent, terror filled class, mentally wishing that one of them would make a comment. Briefly he entertained the thought of asking for an opinion on his current attire, knowing that no matter the answer he could then take points. Either the student would have to lie and say they liked it, or dare to tell the truth and tell him about the visual atrocity, and then he could take points for insulting a teacher. He didn't know which would be more satisfactory.

He decided against it. No one deserved to have to speak about it, not even teenage catastrophes. He scratched absently at his collar, where the synthetic fabric was irritating his sensitive skin. This was beyond an insult, it was just plain uncomfortable now. There were very good reasons he always wore the same black robes, not the least of which being that he was allergic to most dies and Muggle fabrics. The black dye he had created himself, after long hours of work and severe mental strain. Of course, the facts that he had been working on a new shoe polish and the strain came from realizing how badly off he'd been didn't count. The results were more than satisfactory, especially when combined with a fireproofing potion and one to neutralize most common potion accidents. He'd had to revise that last one several times in the last several years; working with Longbottom led to new and creative tragedies. Speaking of which…

"Longbottom!" he snarled, rising quickly and approaching the quivering Gryffindor. "What is this? I specifically mentioned Arran _root_, not leaves! Is it truly your mission in this life to destroy my entire laboratory?"

Neville just cowered and shook his head, frantically looking through his notes for the recipe. Snape sighed in despair, took five points almost as an afterthought, and decided it was probably best that he patrol the room to prevent any other major catastrophes. No one else needed to live through a situation like he was currently. 

Well, maybe Voldemort.

Maybe.

Albus Dumbledore paced slowly around the incredibly cluttered space that was his living area. He repeatedly had to redirect his eyes away from a certain corner, where a certain box of certain unspeakable items resided. The _Prophet_ would have a field day with that, 'Headmaster defeated by box of old clothes.' 

He sighed and sat, angling himself away from that particular area for the sake of his sanity. Then his thoughts traveled down an interesting path regarding sanity, knee socks, a purple tuba, and French vanilla ice cream. While this was rather entertaining, it was not helping him with his intended thinking, so he rerouted that train to King's Cross and started another.

Severus Snape and Ron Weasley were both rather miserable; Albus knew that. Unfortunately, their cure was not a pleasant one, as they had found out the night before. Of course, to add to the problem, his belongings were, uh, less than satisfactory. He remembered…

_"I'm terribly sorry, Severus, but we cannot risk the unstudied interactions between charms and this potion. Perhaps when this is all over-"_

_ Snape seemed to suddenly grasp what was being said. "That's _unspelled_?!" he spluttered. "They actually make _dye_ that color?" He tried to calm himself, telling his mental voice that he had not just squeaked, thank you very much. Fortunately, the Gryffindors were in no state to notice, one being temporarily unconscious, the other two frozen in horror at the glaring suits. _

_ Albus half smiled. "Surely you would be able to create these colors, my dear Potions master."_

_ Snape snorted. "I would not allow myself to. They might never go away, and even being a deatheater would not bring me to inflict that much pain."_

_ Several long minutes later, after waking Ron and blindfolding the others in sympathy, the group had traipsed dismally from the Headmaster's office, hoping that none of them would come across a reflective surface in the near future._

Dumbledore laughed quietly at their remembered expressions. Severus had even dared claim that the headmaster was doing this for his own entertainment! Not that he would; he just took his entertainment where it popped up.

Speaking of entertainment…

He stilled as a brilliant idea struck him. Rubbing the sore spot it left, he began to grin widely, sending the portraits into quivering fits and Fawkes out the window. No good could ever come of this:

Albus Dumbledore had a Good Idea.

(_A/N I wanted to stop here, but the next chapter would be too short. Lucky you.)_

"There's going to be a _what_?" Ron choked, trying not to spit out pieces of his chocolate frog. Hermione frowned at him, wiping a piece of flipper off her shirt. Harry repeated his statement.

"I saw a notice in the hall. The Headmaster decided it would be fun to hold 'theme nights,' and that's the first theme."

Ron's eyes bulged. "You mean I have to _actually_ hear this stuff on top of it being in my head?"

Hermione rolled her eyes at him. "Ron, honestly, you're missing the entire point. I'm sure the Headmaster is doing this to help you and Professor Snape. He could have made the theme chickens if he wanted to."

"Don't encourage the man, Hermione!" Harry hissed. "He just might make that the next one!" Calming down and glancing around as if to make sure that no loony professors were eavesdropping on bad ideas, he added to Ron, "Think of it this way: now everyone else gets to be tortured too. I bet Dumbledore even makes the rest of us dress up."

Ron's face brightened, then quickly dimmed as the combined glow from his hair, face, and hideously orange suit made the other Gryffindors squint and look away. He smiled sheepishly as they blinked their way back to vision. "Sorry."

The Headmaster's announcement was met with spattered applause, as the students tried to figure out how to catch some kind of 24-hour bug that night. Preferably one that was considered highly contagious and reacted badly with polyester.

The Great Hall was usually a thing of beauty and wonder. But now…

Now there was a brightly lit dance floor made up of some kind of colored squares. A large, faceted silver ball twirled obligingly overhead, sending warped snowflake patterns against the walls. Somehow a Muggle stereo system was set up in one corner, ready to inflict horrors untold upon those students not as capable of lying as others.

Dumbledore smiled inwardly as he watched the students enter the room hesitantly. Madame Pomfrey had told him of a suspicious rash of Bloober Flu that seemed to have attacked the school. He had simply arranged for a 'cure' to be brought to the hospital wing. 'Amazing how quickly illness goes away when the alternative involves drinking frog spittle,' he thought as he added several points to the various houses for the advanced charms they had worked to make the illness more believable. After all, it's not that easy to sprout a tail and grow fur, especially on such short notice.

The children all took seats at the small tables Filch had arranged to replace the four House tables. He supposed that offering five points to each student who attended was a rather desperate measure, but if it kept Severus from making any more death threats or practically Petrifying his students with his glare (and current outfit), it would be more than worth it. 

Those professors not fortunate enough to have other, unavoidable plans (although Albus had doubts about Minerva's claim that she had to watch the paint dry or something terrible would happen; he let it go because she knew too many embarrassing secrets), were also present, looking terribly uncomfortable in their 'costumes'. Making a mental note to update his protective wards to keep out any unpleasant surprises from irked colleagues, he rose to address the group.

"Welcome, everyone! It's wonderful to see so many people here for our first theme night. Now, I know many of you are wondering why I chose this, and to tell the truth, so am I. Therefore, let us simply begin!" With that, he cast a small charm on himself and started the music.

The party had died out shortly before curfew. The Gryffindor trio was relieved, both that Ron seemed to be back to normal, and that Hermione had found a charm to block their hearing during the event. Although, if they admitted it, they had actually not had a bad time. A Hogwarts party always involved good food, of course, and the chance to just relax. 

"Who knew Neville could dance like that?" Hermione said, dazed. "I mean, it's certainly not the next hobby I'll be taking up, but he was rather impressive, I think." The boys nodded in agreement.

"What I don't get," Ron said, "is how he can be that talented out there, and such a klutz everywhere else."

"I didn't get put through eight years of lessons in 'everywhere else'." Neville's voice took them by surprise, and all three jumped. The shy Gryffindor boy laughed a little at their obvious startlement, then asked shyly, "You really thought it was good?"

The trio assured him that they meant every word. The rest of the trip to the tower went quickly, and culminated around the fire in the common room, where Ron ceremonially burned the torture device he had worn the past five days.

Dumbledore knocked at the portrait that guarded the Potions Master's private rooms. A muffled voice called, "Enter." He did so, but stopped almost immediately inside the doorway. It looked like a purple cotton candy machine had exploded. Bits of cloth were floating midair, feeding themselves one by one into various cauldrons. Some came out writhing as though in pain, others simply dissolved as if being eaten by acid. A very few were simply leaping into the open flames. Albus raised an eyebrow in question, wondering if Severus had completely lost it, or whether this was simply a healthy outlet for all his stress. The headmaster did notice that Snape had already donned his usual robes once again.

"Rough day, Severus?" he asked. Snape glared at him.

"I never want to see another leisure suit in my life. If I never touch polyester again I shall die a happy man. And I'm going to bloody well _kill_ those Brothers Gibb."

Albus smiled. Things were back to normal.

End. Finally.

_For the record, I actually do like some disco. The BeeGees are not part of that 'some'._


End file.
